


That First Time

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, angst, romance, first time. The usual disclaimers on non-ownership apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Here

Liz thought it would happen almost immediately after she kissed him.

She was sitting in the leather-scented back seat of yet another black sedan, tinted bulletproof glass windows hiding her and Red from the FBI securing the chaotic scene in and around the Chicago Trust building.

Red tried to negotiate for the safety of their team when the operation went wrong, and she stood at his side until the blacklister lifted his weapon.

Then she stepped between Red and the bullet.

Liz had a bulletproof vest between her skin and her boxy suit jacket. But he didn't know that at the time.

He's still a little pale, a little shocky.

Even though he had the presence of mind to grab her weapon and shoot the blacklister while using her sagging body as a shield.

"Lizzie, I fear I'm going to develop a heart condition if you continue in this vein," says Red, taking out his pocket handkerchief and dabbing at his forehead.

Liz sets her palm on his chest, as if feeling for his heartbeat. He's armored as usual in layers of impeccably tailored clothing, a wool suit, a cashmere overcoat, a long, thick scarf.

She's touching him, and he hasn't pulled away.

Cautiously, she raises her other hand and places it on his chest.

She takes a breath then, looking him in the eyes. Giving him plenty of space.

He seems mesmerized, not moving, his usually expressive face ironed still and flat.

She leans close and presses her lips to his, opens her mouth as he responds almost timidly to her kiss. Their first kiss.

Liz slides across the seat, their mouths still joined, until she's pressed up against him, and at last his arms come around her.

He holds her so lightly. As if he can't believe this is happening.

She has one hand on his face, the other still resting over his heart.

Kissing Red is like nothing she's ever experienced. He murmurs endearments in other languages between perfect kisses, so sure and experienced she feels the heat rising in her like a wave, suffusing her in a pulsing glow of desire so bright she closes her eyes as she reaches for the many little buttons of his vest.

She wants to touch his skin.

Red catches her hand. Draws back.

"No, Lizzie. Not here."

She opens her eyes and blinks hazily. She's somehow crawled into his lap without noticing.

He kisses her again, but gently.

"Not like this."

Liz takes several deep breaths as she disentangles herself and moves back to sit on her own side of the car.

"Then when?" she whispers, finally.

"Friday. After work. We'll go somewhere private."

Red kisses her mouth once more, then lifts her fingers to his lips, plants kisses on her palms.

It's Wednesday. How is she going to survive until Friday?


	2. Not Now

The advantage of waiting is that she's clean rather than sweaty from the weight of the Kevlar vest. And she's wearing new black lingerie rather than her customary, practical cotton underthings. The disadvantage is that she's had too much time to wonder whether this is the right decision for her. For them.

Liz packs a small overnight bag, not sure what climate she's packing for. She pulls on a black dress and high boots, then examines her hair in the mirror one last time.

The thick, complex braid wound around her head is flattering and tightly pinned in place. She checks to be sure her weapon is snug in the holster inside her winter coat before answering the door. 

Dembe and Red.

She's beyond ready for tonight to begin.

"Lizzie!" Red greets her, looks down in apparent confusion at the small black nylon bag at her feet.

"Overnight bag," she responds to the question he hasn't asked. He and Dembe exchange a brief glance, then Dembe lifts the bag and waits for her to follow Red. 

Away from her apartment. Into whatever hidden world he has prepared for them.

****

A suite at a boutique hotel less than five miles away. The sedan pulls into a secure garage entrance, stops at an unmarked door.

There's only one other car on this level of the garage. Liz leans forward, watching the tinted windows for some hint of movement.

Red sat calmly enough at her side on the short ride here, just holding her hand, filling her in on some of the items discovered in the breached Chicago Trust vault. He hasn't kissed her again yet.

"They're with my outer perimeter team," he advises her, breaking off mid-sentence as he sees her go on alert. He gives her hand a little squeeze. "You do know I'm always guarded by more than Dembe, don't you?"

Actually, she didn't. But she's not going to say that now. She feels foolish enough.

Liz recognized the glance between the consummately self-possessed man at her side and Dembe. Red didn't expect luggage. He might have even assumed that he would be dropping her back at her apartment late tonight.

"Of course," she answers, allowing him to lead her to the small, private elevator.

She doesn't mind Dembe knowing about her and Red, but it's becoming clear that her reputation, her career, perhaps even her freedom, is now in the hands of any number of unknown criminals.

***

The elevator debouches into a private foyer. They stroll through into a large, elegantly appointed room with a fire burning in a marble fireplace, a table with a white cloth set for two in front of it. Piano music plays softly in the background, something classical she doesn't recognize. The room glows softly in the light of several braces of white candles, illuminating the large vases on every flat surface which are filled with masses of brightly colored fresh flowers.

"I will inform the kitchen you have arrived," says Dembe. He crosses the room without waiting for a response, disappearing through ornate double doors with her overnight bag swinging from his left hand.

"Dinner?" asks Liz, looking around to see Red opening a bottle of chilled champagne.

"We can't have you ... hungry, can we, Lizzie?" he asks her, handing her the glass with a suggestive smile.

She licks her lips.

This is such a beautiful, romantic setting, but it's not what she expected.

Liz thought she would be alone with Red, and that the moment they were together, they would be wrapped in each others arms.

"Are you hungry, Red?" she parries, accepting the glass and taking a sip with a look that she hopes is seductive rather than nervous.

She almost called him and canceled several times in the course of the past 48 hours. 

She's only ever been with Tom. The liar, the spy, the betrayer. Their first time, Liz flung herself at him, grabbed him by the hair, and kissed them both breathless. Not a tactic that appeals, not with Red.

"Famished," he responds in a rough voice, raising his glass in her direction.

That's promising. Even though his exquisite manners and self-control are making her stomach ache.

She doesn't want to eat. She just wants to get it over with. At least get it started. His image flickers back and forth in her mind's eye; between the beloved, familiar Red, and a frightening, fastidious stranger.

Liz desperately needs him to kiss her.

"Red?" she begins, after taking a drink of her champagne for courage.

There's a rap at the door.

Dembe admits a waiter rolling a laden cart. Delicious aromas fill the room.

Red seats her formally at the table beside the fireplace, then tastes and accepts wine from the waiter, who places small plates of artistically presented food in front of them before standing still as a statue beside the cart.

Oh no. He's going to stay and serve them every course.

But after a few minutes, Liz can almost forget the presence of the waiter as Red smiles across the table at her, being his very most charming self as they work their way through the many courses. 

Liz tastes a few bites of each dish; Red eats heartily as he asks her leading questions, then listens. And listens.

There are so many things they have never discussed - arts, books, music. 

But sadly, Liz realizes that she truly opens up only when they return to the subject of work. The blacklisters. Where she's confident in her strong opinions.

She doesn't want to seem uncultured or callow, but her life hasn't allowed much time or resources for the finer things in life. And of course, he has decades more experience.

Liz knows that she's not his equal. She never will be. But she yearns for the fantasy, for him to set that aside. For the moment they will just be a man and a woman.


	3. Nerves

Raymond Reddington is becoming more and more perturbed behind his practiced facade.

Liz is clearly nervous and unhappy.

Everything he's chosen so carefully is failing to appeal to her.

They are still close to her home. Dembe's protective presence, and his evident approval, should be reassuring. The food, the music, even his cologne. The color of his tie.

He's somehow been over-thinking this.

Trying not to admit to himself how unnerving it will be to actually hold the woman of his dreams in his arms.

Bare his aging, scarred, horribly burned body to her limpid blue gaze.

She is physical perfection, at the height of her female beauty, baby fat burned away by relentless exercise, her fine boned features sharp with intelligence and wit. And compassion.

But he wants her adoration; for her to feel desire, even abandon.

He didn't expect her to plan to spend the night. Or the weekend. Dembe has already managed to inform him there are several changes of clothing in her luggage.

Red barely sleeps as it is.

He can't remember the last time he allowed a woman to try to spend the night in bed beside him.

Oh, yes he can. And didn't that end in a predictably horrible way?

He just wants to get it over with. At least get it started. Then everything will either go well, or, if it doesn't, there are several bottles of rare and delightful wine sitting uncorked on the cart. Liz is barely sipping at each pour, her glass of Sauternes untasted.

Why did he agree to do this?

***

Liz smiles across the table at Red after the dessert is served. Hoping her face looks loving and interested, and her smile is not merely a grimace.

Why did she agree to do this?

The waiter departs, and Dembe disappears into the second set of double doors on the other side of the room. He apparently has his own suite, perhaps twin to the one she walked through to use the restroom.

An immense bed, a fantastically opulent bathroom with shower, tub and steam room, all in gold-flecked marble. Enormous fluffy towels with hotel logo in gold thread.

"That's a good year for d'Yquem," he comments. "You really should try it."

Liz smiles, shrugs, and lifts the glass to her lips. Honey sweet, filling her mouth with joy, she stares at Red before swallowing in disbelief.

Wine that tastes somehow like his kisses. How did he arrange this for her?

He chuckles, the tiny worried lines at the corners of his eyes smoothing out.

Her face is warm from the nearby fire, or perhaps the wine. She takes another swallow.

Red has finished all his dessert, a tiny, elegantly presented portion, and is eyeing her plate without any pretense of disinterest. Liz lifts their plates without a word, switches them.

There's something erotic about watching Red lick the last bites of cake from the silver dessert fork she just used.

Dinner is finally over.

"I'll just change the music, shall I?" he asks her, rising and crossing the room to the stereo. Slower music. Violins and horns.

He comes back, holds out his hand.

"A dance?" he smiles down at her.

Liz reaches for his hand, about to rise, then puts out her other hand to stop him.

"Let me take off my boots," she says, then adds, in a burst of inspiration, or perhaps just terror, "And take off your jacket, Red."

He lays the jacket almost tenderly over the back of his chair as she tugs off her boots and her socks, leaving her to stand in her bare feet. Her simple black dress is from the sale rack, two years ago. At least her petal pink toenails are perfect.

He's in his vest and shirtsleeves.

All she can think of is getting him out of his clothes. Finding herself horizontal in the darkness of that enormous bed.

"Tie too?" she asks timidly.

His shoulders soften, just a little, and he steps closer. Lifts his chin.

Her hands shake as she loosens the knot of his tie. After she turns to lay the silk tie carefully atop his jacket, Red unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt.

Better.

Liz faces him and attempts to dance. Really, just following his lead as best she can, her bare feet all over the place as her attention narrows to the places they are now touching. His hand at the small of her back.

He's humming along with the music, his eyes half-closed. She's trying so hard not to lead. Not to step in closer, ruin this romantic evening he's creating with her awkward, nervous energy. One part lust, one part fear. 

The music stops, and in that pause, she finds her voice.

"Red? Take me to bed?"

In answer, he shuts off the music, then shouts "Good-night, Dembe!" and from a distance, through the closed doors, she hears the answering "Good night, Raymond."

Then he leads her into his room. Shuts and locks the door. Flips the wall switch, which lights the small beaten copper lamps on the nightstands.

They are finally alone.


	4. No Hesitation

Red shuts the doors and turns. Moment of truth. They are alone, and so much will hinge on the outcome of this night.

Liz looks both elated and a little scared. He expects kisses and embraces to come next, but Liz shows no hesitation.

"Help me with my zipper, will you?" she asks him, presenting the lovely line of her back in the modest black dress.

Red lowers the zipper to the middle of her back, presses a kiss to her neck. He expected perfume, but she just smells soapy clean. He remembers pulling her against him at the Factory, how she sighed in his hold.

Liz stands so still beneath his touch, trembling slightly. Her lacy black bra is just a narrow wisp of fabric.

"Do you need the bathroom?" he whispers. Kisses one shoulder, then the other.

She shakes her bowed head.

"I'll be right out," he murmurs.

Hoping she'll take the hint and get in bed. He doesn't want to undress too quickly. Not standing here in the light.

Red washes his hands and stares critically at himself in the mirror. 

His eyes are bright, but the deep circles beneath them, no less than the fine lines fanning from the corners, betray his age. He turns his head from one side to the other, examining his neck. The neck is always the first to go. He may be overdue for a little more work.

Red gives himself a sour smile and steps back into the room.

The lights are still on. Liz is sitting naked on the edge of the bed. She's examining her irregular purple bruises, reminders of the bullets she took for him.

"Not so pretty, are they?" she comments in a wry tone that sounds more like her than she has all evening.

"Beautiful as living to see a new dawn," he responds, enjoying the way her face warms as she smiles at him.

She stands and walks into his embrace, raising her face for his kiss. Red tries not to grasp at her, to keep his hands reverent. The first, perhaps the only time he can see her, hold her. Trace the curves with his hands that he's imagined so often.

She's stronger, more muscular than he knew, her pale skin so fine-pored, soft.

"Too many clothes." She smiles up at him, pulling back from his kisses, her hands on the buttons of his vest. "You have no idea how often I've thought that, looking at you."

"The lure of the unknown?" he responds, stroking her face and hair, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart as she unbuttons his vest and eases it off his shoulders, releasing the curves of his chest and belly.

Liz shakes her head as she turns back from laying the vest on the bench at the foot of the bed. She pauses, mere inches from him.

"You're still wearing shoes," she says, almost accusingly.

Red looks down. Dress shoes, laces tied tight. He'll need to sit on the bed to get those off.

"Let me."

Liz folds down to crouch gracefully at his feet. He stares at the braided knot of dark hair pinned to the back of her head, the supple curve of her spine as she removes his shoes and socks. Her warm hands cover his bare feet for a moment.

She looks up.

"I've never seen your feet before," she says. He's about to bend and offer her a hand to stand up, when she does something that sends an almost painful shock of desire up his nerves.

She bends her face and kisses his feet, then moves to his ankles, her tongue unerringly finding the exact spot that melts the tension in him to trembling.

"Lizzie."

Red feels himself go from half-aroused and nervous, to far too close, without any warning in between. He's losing control of the situation.

She grasps his ankles, looks up his legs. Bites her lower lip as her eyes widen, her pupils dilating until only a fine sliver of sapphire remains.

"Red."

Liz rises effortlessly, trailing her fingertips lightly up the sides of his trouser-covered legs. She pauses when her hands reach his waist, then follows the tight line of his leather belt with her fingertips to the buckle. Not quite brushing against him, but so very close.

"Yes?"

He nods, trying to collect himself. Red planned for seduction tonight, for Liz to lie back for his attentions. He planned to remain clothed as long as possible, to blur her gaze with pleasure. But perhaps this is no more than he deserves. She would not be the first woman, though certainly the youngest by more than a decade, to look and then flinch away at the sight of his damaged body.

Bracing himself for possible rejection, Red locks his knees and tilts his head for another kiss.


	5. Damaged

Her hands on his belt buckle, Liz pauses, leaning into his kiss. Red wears his belt so tight beneath the generous curve of his belly. She unbuckles the belt, pulls hard to release it. Still kissing him, she feels for the catch of his dress pants, the button inside the waist. Brushing him with her nails along the straining line of the zipper.

"Slowly, Lizzie," he whispers against her mouth, his hands on either side of her face.

She lowers the zipper carefully, then slides her hands flat down his hips. Pulling both his trousers and his silk boxers down to his knees.

Liz steps back, crouches to help him step out of the garments. Lays them on the bench with his vest.

Just the dress shirt and his tshirt beneath it left. His wrinkled shirt front hangs down, not quite concealing him from her gaze. Both his thighs are scarred, his knees oddly lumpy with the seams of old wounds visible. She runs her fingers over a deep white indentation on his left thigh, the smooth skin such a contrast to the soft light hair of his thighs and groin.

He strains toward her. Liz runs her fingers around the back of his thighs, pausing at the odd texture beneath her fingers. 

Red winces at her look of inquiry, then steps away from her touch before turning and lifting the back of his shirt up for a moment.

A net of thin white lines covers his backside, descending halfway down his legs, almost to his knees. Old, old whip scars. There's a deep round scar also, as if a brand or tattoo has been obliterated.

Red turns back to face her, shrugs with a pinched smile.

"And that's not the worst of it," he says, spreading his hands at his sides. As if to say, wasn't that enough?

***

She has such a strange look on her face. 

Will she cry, and pity him? Step away, trying to conceal her distaste or disgust?

Liz looks almost frightened. Red tries to slow his breathing, ignore his visibly waning arousal as she hesitates. 

He needs to find the words, some graceful words, to make whatever she needs to say, or do now seem acceptable to him. The naked perfection of her body, so close to him, and he can't bring himself to reach for her.

She steps forward, takes two handfuls of his shirt and tshirt, pushes them up to bare him fully.

He shivers beneath her gaze.

Liz stares silently, taking in the evidence of torture. Bullet holes. Knife scars. The silvering hair patching his plump body, the curling line of old cigarette burns at his left hip.

Unable to withstand her expressionless scrutiny, Red pulls away and then turns his back, hears as if from a distance her soft gasp.

The burns are the worst. His back doesn't really look human any more.

Red feels her hands touch his shirt, just at his armpits. She's going to cover him now, make some excuse.

Only a sadist would find his wrecked frame appealing. And Liz is no sadist.

She tugs. Upward.

"Off. Take them off."


	6. Bed

When he pulls his shirt and tshirt off over his head, revealing the pale curve of his big shoulders, dusted with tiny freckles, Liz steps in close and wraps her arms around him from behind. Kisses and kisses the ruined skin of his back, the loose wrinkled skin of his neck, the silver stubble behind his ears.

The smell and taste of his cologne, the hint of wine on his breath. He looked so distant, almost afraid. This night matters to him.

Red sighs and shudders as she caresses his chest, pressing herself to his back, her tongue finding the spot behind each ear that makes his muscles clench. Slides her hands down to map the curve of his belly, tugging his hands even lower to join with her own. Urging him with kisses and little nibbles at his neck and the tops of his shoulders.

He tilts his head back as she rubs against him, widening her stance.

"Oh god, Lizzie," he groans as she strokes him, their hands moving together. Her fingers learning from his movements exactly what pleases him best.

She needs to get him to the bed. Liz steps against him, whispers into his ear.

"Bed. On the bed."

Her brain is shutting down. She can't form complete sentences. She wants him so badly it's all she can do to remember to keep breathing.

Red arranges himself on his back in the very center of the enormous bed. One hand behind his head, the other still touching himself. Slitting his eyes at her as if daring her to object. Or maybe that's bravado. 

She's always been so conscious of the scar on her hand. So aware of it as disfiguring. As a symbol that she's damaged.

Liz actually used that word to him. 

The unbelievable courage of Raymond Reddington, moving through the world with such apparent confidence and ease, his body bearing the marks of such cruelty and hatred.

Her scar is nothing. She'll never be afraid of it again.

Liz crawls to the center of the bed, straddles his thighs. Leans down until their foreheads touch, poised just above him.

"I want you, Red," she whispers. "Please. Please."

***

He lasts as long as he can, given that his body is molten with the pent up desire of years.

Liz is flexible, energetic, enthusiastic as only the young can be. She doesn't say it until the second time, late in the night, lying on their sides as he moves slowly behind her, searching for just the right angle.

"Oh, Red, I love you."

He's so deep, so caught up in that last perfect thrust as she lets out the broken little gasps that signal her release, and then he just dissolves, clutching her tightly in his arms as the subsequent, diffuse joy sings through him once again.

He shouldn't say it. He can't. 

"I love you too."

Apparently he's lost control of his tongue, as well.

Curled tight against him in the circle of his arms, Red feels Liz tug his hand to her lips. Kiss the curve between his thumb and forefinger. His right hand. The hand of a killer, so many times over.

Then she draws his index finger into the hot, wet softness of her mouth, prompting a few final, exquisite spasms of sensation. Like completing a circuit, he feels her surrounding him, her love as palpable as the smooth slide of her skin against him.

Red closes his eyes, just for a moment, and falls down and away, in disbelief, into sleep.


	7. After

He wakes alone, curled on his side. Clutching a pillow to his chest. The room is dark and still, the blackout curtains tightly drawn.

Red sits up, reaches for his watch on the nightstand.

It's eight am. He lifts the watch to his ear, listens to the precise Swiss movement. He never sleeps past five. And that's only after pills, or too many drinks. Or both. 

His body feels incredibly light. Unstrung. His lower back is tight, but that's to be expected.

Oh no. 

He said he loved her.

Red's memory finally catches up with him and he sits bolt upright in bed, rubbing his eyes.

No evidence of Liz remains in the room.

He's been such a fool. After planning the evening so carefully, all it took was the least assertiveness on her part for him to abandon all his carefully constructed strategies and defenses.

Sometimes, being malleable can be a strength. But he went too far, yielded too swiftly. 

He never intended to undress like that.

He can't believe that he slept in her arms. 

He certainly can't blame her for slipping away once he was asleep.

Red rubs his stubbled chin, remembering her hands, her mouth on him. He needs coffee. Dembe will know what time she left.

Would it be more hopeful if she slept a while with him, first? He can't decide.

Red lifts the long, monogrammed white hotel robe from the bathroom hook and belts it loosely around his waist. Steps into the bright sunlight of the sitting room.

Liz and Dembe look up simultaneously from the table by the fireplace. They are drinking coffee from a tall silver pot and sharing the morning papers.

Red runs his hand over the back of his head, trying to maintain his composure. Pulls his gaping robe closed at the neck.

Liz is wearing a loose white tunic and black leggings. Her feet are bare, the pale pink polish on her nails glistening.

"Good morning, Red," she smiles at him. A blinding smile.

"Coffee?" Dembe is already pouring him a cup.

He crosses the room, takes the cup. Swallows half of it, blinks, then smiles back at Liz.

Her head is still tipped back, a frown beginning to crease her brow.

Red glances cautiously at Dembe, but he's returned to his paper.

"Red?"

He yields, leans in to kiss her good morning. She sets down her cup, rises to embrace him as he tries not to spill the remainder of his coffee. 

"I love you so much, Red. Last night was perfect," she tells him, her fingers sliding beneath the collar of his robe to caress the back of his neck. Rubbing along the line where his burns begin as if she's savoring the contrasting textures. She steps back, now holding him loosely around the waist as he finishes his coffee. Such a possessive touch.

He doesn't know what to say, the joy too intense for words.

Dembe looks up from his newspaper and saves him.

"Sit and read this article on Crimea," he says, indicating the third chair, a low padded arm chair, pulled up at the side of the table.

"Oh, yes," Liz agrees, releasing him and sitting back down. Taking her cue from Dembe. "And then there's a really excellent column on it from the Times."

Red looks from one to the other. Loyal Dembe and passionate Liz. They both love him. They're going to sit together, and drink coffee, and talk international politics. He can't think of a happier morning than this.

Until an hour later, when Liz leads him, unprotesting, back to bed.


End file.
